


Kiss Me Like You Want To Be Loved

by peachrosepetals



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Confident Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, Flirting, Getting Together, M/M, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Triss thinks Geralt is ridiculous, and second kiss and third kiss and fourth...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23687956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachrosepetals/pseuds/peachrosepetals
Summary: Jaskier has developed a nasty habit of kissing Geralt, and Geralt cannot for the life of him figure outwhy.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 111
Kudos: 1365
Collections: The Witcher





	Kiss Me Like You Want To Be Loved

**Author's Note:**

> Set some nebulous time after 1x4 (Of Banquets, Bastards and Burials) and before 1x5 (Bottled Appetites). Thanks forever to my wonderful best friend and beta @[imnotinclinedtomaturity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imnotinclinedtomaturity/pseuds/imnotinclinedtomaturity). You always make my writing so much better.

It comes out of nowhere, the first time.

It all begins innocently enough, on a relatively normal night in a tavern outside of Lyria. Jaskier’s fame and notoriety has been growing noticeably since Cintra, something that has made Jaskier even more irritating to travel with. It isn’t so much the bard himself as the attention he draws — though Jaskier has his own fair share of annoying traits to begin with.

Jaskier’s acclaim has grown just enough that Geralt isn’t surprised anymore when they’re approached by eager audiences, so he isn’t bothered when a young page first steps up to them that evening. He assumes it’ll be a request to sing in the town square, or to liven up the tavern they’re in — but it isn’t.

Instead, the page requests Jaskier’s attendance at the nearby lord’s home for a night of revelry. Not only does he offer an exorbitant amount of coin, but free room and board for the night, and the words have barely left the page’s mouth before Jaskier is agreeing, a greedy look on his face. He doesn’t even hesitate to jump up and grab his lute to follow after the page eagerly.

Geralt watches him go, amused despite himself, and grabs his tankard of ale leisurely. He has no intention of tagging along until —

“Sir,” the page squeaks, clearly half terrified of him, his voice shaking. Mildly surprised, Geralt puts down his tankard slowly to raise a brow at the boy. Jaskier stands behind him, impatiently hopping from foot to foot, clearly ready to go, annoyed at the hold up. He’s glaring at Geralt a little bit, as if it’s Geralt’s fault the page is still speaking to him.

“What,” Geralt says, and it isn’t really a question. He watches as the young boy swallows thickly before straightening up, seemingly pulling himself together.

“My lord requests your attendance as well,” he says, voice is much stronger this time. Geralt can still hear the quiver in it, but the boy hides it well. Geralt can’t help smirking a little in response, and picks up his tankard without answering to gulp down the last of his ale. When he slams it back down on the table, empty, it's to find that Jaskier is suddenly looking at him pleadingly.

“Geralt,” he says, stressing his name in an almost whine. Geralt just smirks harder.

“Hold your trousers bard, I’m coming,” he comments dryly, and stands.

They haven’t paid for their rooms yet, and their stuff is still with Roach, so Geralt allows Jaskier to lead them out of the tavern and towards the back of the inn. The stablehand is quick to hand Roach over. Geralt takes her lead gently as they make their way to the manor.

Jaskier is rambling at the page, who looks equal parts terrified and intrigued. His eyes keep flicking towards Geralt, as if he’s afraid if he looks away for too long Geralt is going to bite him. It amuses Geralt greatly, and he does nothing to dissuade the assumption.

Jaskier, on the other hand, is quick to notice, rolling his eyes dramatically before stopping in his tirade about the last town they’d been in, who clearly didn’t know a good thing when it hit them in the face, to instead address the problem.

“Ignore Geralt, he’s just a sourpuss,” Jaskier explains dismissively, humming a soft tune to himself. “If it would make you feel more comfortable, I’ll give you a free performance,” he adds, and perks up. “Come on, give me a song and I’ll play it for you — I’m sure Geralt will be right pleased if you do,” he says, and laughs, winking at Geralt while the page stares bemusedly.

The page does pick a song though, much to Geralt’s annoyance, and Jaskier picks it up easily, strumming his lute and singing along as they make their way through the town. Geralt mostly tunes it out until the wrought iron gates of the lord’s manor appear and Jaskier blessedly stops playing.

The page speaks a few words with the guardsman, who open the gates to admit them, and then takes Roach away with a terrified promise to have her seen too. Geralt makes the extra effort to narrow his eyes at the boy, just to make sure nothing happens to his horse.

Jaskier scoffs at him, and hits him on the shoulder. “Give the poor boy a break, Geralt, he’s not going to hurt Roach,” he says with a roll of his eyes. Geralt just stares at him before turning away.

A servant approaches them next and takes their bags, leading them up to two rooms sat side by side where they’re to stay for the evening. The servants have already set up a bath for both of them, but at Jaskier’s request, the servant also sends for someone to get Geralt a change of clothes. Geralt glares at Jaskier in annoyance, but Jaskier merely smiles brightly at him in return as he strolls into his own rooms.

Reluctantly, Geralt allows the servant to help him get settled. He’s halfway through washing when she returns with a change of clothes. Geralt grunts at her when she explains where she’ll be leaving them, hardly paying her any attention until she's gone.

Unfortunately, Geralt’s peace and quiet doesn’t last long, as he’s barely managed to finish washing and dressing himself when Jaskier returns, flouncing into his rooms unannounced.

“Don’t you look dashing,” Jaskier comments playfully, offering Geralt a cheeky wink. Geralt grumbles at him, and turns back to the mirror to adjust his dinner coat. He can see the bard hovering behind him, resplendent in his own clothes.

Jaskier is dressed in slightly fancier attire than usual; he’s got on a blue doublet buttoned all the way to his neck, striped through with a nice, golden thread. It’s really rather classy, and Geralt can’t help snorting at himself for the thought.

Jaskier gives him a strange look, but invites himself further inside and drops down onto Geralt’s bed.

“Get off,” Geralt grunts, just to be vexatious, glaring at Jaskier through the mirror. Jaskier grins at him but doesn’t otherwise move.

“Now Geralt, is that really the way you should be treating the man who got us free rooms for the night?” Jaskier teases, and just to be a menace, sprawls backwards on Geralt’s bed with his boots on and everything. Geralt rolls his eyes and moves away from the mirror to stand in front of him.

He doesn’t particularly care about the mess Jaskier is making of his bed, but Jaskier doesn’t know that, so Geralt looms over the bard just to see him squirm. Jaskier doesn’t, though. Instead, he stares up at Geralt with playful eyes and a smirk on his lips.

“Oh dear witcher,” Jaskier says breathlessly, batting his eyes coquettishly. “Whatever are you going to do with me?” he asks, simpering, and nearly swoons on the bed. Geralt can’t help rolling his eyes again, and bares his teeth just for the hell of it. Jaskier mock gasps, affronted, and Geralt reaches out to grab tight to Jaskier’s arm.

He isn’t gentle as he yanks the bard off the bed, but all it does is lead to Jaskier laughing at him and tumbling into his arms enthusiastically. Geralt feels warm everywhere Jaskier is touching him, and he shoves Jaskier away immediately, uncomfortable with the feeling.

“What do you want,” Geralt grumbles, hell-bent on changing the topic. He never knows what to do with himself when Jaskier flirts with him.

Jaskier chuckles as he straightens his clothes. “I thought we could head down together,” he explains delightedly. “After all, the lord did ask for both of us,” he adds, seeming pleased about something. He stares smugly at Geralt, waiting for… what, Geralt doesn’t know.

So Geralt just stares at him.

It only takes a moment, and then — “Well? Aren’t you going to thank me?” Jaskier asks, half amused, half incredulous.

Geralt merely grunts at him, and raises his brow in question.

Jaskier huffs good naturedly, shaking his head. “Only you would be so ungrateful,” he comments facetiously. “You wouldn’t have even gotten in invite if it weren’t for me,” he complains, mock frowning at Geralt. He crosses his arms over his chest, pouting now, but the smile tugging at the corner of his lips gives him away.

They both know being invited to a banquet is the very _last_ thing Geralt wants.

Geralt snorts, and turns away, a smile of his own curling at his lips. “Come on, Jaskier,” he comments dryly, “Let's go and get this shit show over with,” he states contemptuously and walks away. Jaskier laughs, but is quick to meet him at the door.

The banquet itself, once they head down, is luxurious. There are large platters filled with tiny cakes, and long, thin glasses filled with wine. Geralt would rather be back in the tavern drinking beer with Jaskier, but he supposes sitting in a corner by himself with some wine will have to do. Jaskier’s right about one thing — when it comes down to it, he has no right to complain. It’s Jaskier who's bringing in the coin tonight, not Geralt, and this time he doesn’t even have to kill something to get it.

He can put up with a few hours of fancy shit if it means that tomorrow they’ll be able to restock on provisions and comfortably prepare for the next few weeks on the road.

They party goers leave Geralt alone, for the most part. He’s forced to entertain the lord for the first hour or so, and every once in a while some count or countess will approach him, but they never stay for long. It's nice, for a banquet, and so far better than the last one Jaskier had dragged him to.

Jaskier has been playing for a few hours when the mood of the room seems to change. Geralt hadn’t really been paying attention to what Jaskier’d been playing, but Geralt is familiar enough with Jaskier’s music that he immediately picks up on the beginning notes of a less familiar tune.

He looks up curiously to find Jaskier in the crowd, and he’s surprised to realize that Jaskier is already staring back at him, his bright blue eyes sparkling, and his mouth turned up in a knowing smile.

Geralt’s brow crinkles, and it takes him a moment to recognize the song for what it is; a ballad about loving and longing that Jaskier has been working on for the last few weeks.

As soon as he recognizes it, Geralt frowns and his eyes narrow towards Jaskier in annoyance. For his part, Jaskier casually tears his gaze away and turns that knowing smile towards the crowd instead. Geralt thinks he even see’s Jaskier wink at a lady before he starts singing, and the sight shouldn’t make a sharp twisting feeling burn through his chest, but it does.

It’s confusing, to say the least.

_The fairer sex, they often call it_

_But her love’s as unfair as a crook_

_It steals all my reason_

_Commits every treason_

_Of logic, with naught but a look_

The song makes something ugly crawl beneath Geralt’s skin, and sets his teeth on edge the more he hears it. He hasn’t liked it since the first time he heard Jaskier singing it, and has, on more than one occasion, demanded that Jaskier stop playing it, but he has no real idea why.

It’s just _annoying_ , and the way Jaskier looks at him when he sings it only makes it even _more_ annoying. Something has changed between them, though Geralt can’t put his finger on what it is. Jaskier has just been different lately — he’s been flirting more, for one, if that evening hadn’t been evidence enough — and it had all started with the blasted song.

The change troubles Geralt.

_A storm breaking on the horizon_

_Of longing and heartache and lust_

_She's always bad news_

_It's always lose, lose_

_So tell me love, tell me love_

_How is that just?_

The crowd is eating the ballad up, the women sighing at the longing words, bodies straining towards the bard. It irritates Geralt more than usual for some reason, and he can’t help glaring at them. He blames the damn song.

Jaskier, meanwhile, is glowing under all of the attention, the soft tenor of his voice ringing throughout the hall as he moves, leaning in close to some of the women as if he’s crooning the words directly to them. Geralt’s fingers curl into fists against his palms.

He can’t say why his eyes are following the bard, but they are. He can’t seem to pull his gaze away, and he watches as the bard changes direction a few bars into the song, turning towards Geralt.

Before Geralt can yank his gaze away and pretend like he wasn’t staring, Jaskier’s gaze catches his, and holds him there. The look is like fire, and it rushes through Geralt’s veins for the entirety of the long moment it takes for Jaskier to look away again.

All at once, Jaskier’s destination seems to become clear to the entire room, and Geralt can feel the burning gaze of every person in attendance staring at him. Jaskier’s attention flits about, gliding over the nearby tables, but his path doesn’t change.

Geralt inhales sharply, glaring at anyone who dares to meet his gaze. Everyone seems to be staring at him with that same knowing look Jaskier had given him just a moment before, and it’s enough to drive him wild. He shifts, entirely uncomfortable with the attention, with the realization that Jaskier is headed his way and he doesn’t know _why_ , but before he can get up and leave —

Jaskier is there, standing directly in front of Geralt, his eyes dancing and his smile full of breathless laughter. He leans in close, and sings:

_But the story is this_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

_Her sweet kiss_

_But the story is this_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

Geralt watches as Jaskier’s face draws ever closer, until he’s breathing the words against Geralt’s lips, just audible enough for those nearby to hear him. Geralt inhales sharply, and his fingers clench tighter against his skin. He can hardly hear the sound of Jaskier’s short laugh, more of a huff than anything else, over the rushing in his own ears, and then —

Then Jaskier’s pressing his lips against Geralt’s and they’re… they’re _kissing._ It’s brief, just a small moment, but it lingers, Jaskier’s warmth suffusing Geralt.

It’s so fast that Geralt doesn’t get a chance to react. He goes to inhale sharply against Jaskier’s lips, but it’s too late — he’s gone, pulling away and turning without a single word. The entire room seems to sigh, a sound born wholly of romance, as Jaskier starts to sing again.

Geralt can only stare, because that… is not something that has ever happened to him before. Not with Jaskier, that is.

\--

The second time it happens is almost as sudden.

It’s been months since the banquet, and they’ve never talked about the kiss. Really, Geralt isn’t even sure there’s value in addressing it. All signs point to that night being a one off, a random night of extenuating factors that Gerat won't even pretend to understand.

First and foremost, there’s the fact that Jaskier had been drunk most of the night. Geralt isn’t sure when the heavy drinking had actually started — before or _after_ the kiss — but by the end of the night, Jaskier had been giggling and clinging to Geralt the same way he always did when he’d had too much to drink.

Secondly, Jaskier hadn’t exactly been… alone, but he definitely hadn’t been partnered for the night, either. That had been somewhat of a surprise, considering Jaskier’s outrageous flirting at the beginning of the night, and Geralt had been fully prepared to drag Jaskier out of the bed of a willing, albeit _married_ , lady, in order to save his arse from another vengeful husband. The night hadn’t ended up calling for it, though.

Rather, as the evening had gone on, Geralt had realized fairly quickly that Jaskier was… keeping to himself, mostly — as unusual as that was. Sure, there was an adoring crowd of onlookers, all plying Jaskier with drinks and encouraging him to regale them with never ending stories of Geralt of Rivia’s travels, but Jaskier’s attention was never on them more than necessary to earn their coin.

Surprisingly, extracting Jaskier from the attentive banquet had been an easy task that night; he’d come willingly, easily, although he’d definitely been rather affectionate. By the time they were staggering back to their rooms together — or at least, Jaskier was staggering, and Geralt was _holding him up_ — the only exciting blip in the whole of the night was Jaskier’s jovial drunkenness… and the kiss.

Which they weren’t speaking about. Still. Even several months later.

Now, they're in a forest in Sodden, Jaskier strumming his lute at the fireside while Geralt cooks, smoking two trout on a roasting stick. For once, Jaskier is surprisingly silent, merely humming a tune that Geralt isn’t familiar with — not yet anyway.

Must be a new song.

They’re headed to Armeria, following a rumor about a devourer who’s graduated from hunting dead bodies to terrorizing the townsfolk. They’re maybe a day out, but it’s late, and Geralt hadn’t thought traveling any further tonight was a good idea.

They’re close enough now that the monster could appear at any moment, and Geralt hasn’t told Jaskier this, but the smell of their food could easily lure it out, if it’s near. Geralt glances at the bard, before sweeping his gaze across the woods around them.

He can’t sense anything closing in, but he’s not about to let his guard down.

“Fish is done,” Geralt grunts as he turns the roasting stick one last time, pleased with how it’s turned out. He slips one of the trout free from the stick, and drops it haphazardly into his lap before carefully offering the other to Jaskier.

Jaskier hums delightedly, and the soft sound of his lute playing ends abruptly as he takes the fish.

“Thank you, Geralt,” he says, far too cheery for someone who's been eating the same, flavorless meal over and over again over the last few weeks. “It smells heavenly!”

Geralt pauses, amused. “It smells like fish, Jaskier,” he quips, rolling his eyes.

The bard sputters indignantly, and Geralt doesn’t have to look to know that Jaskier is glaring at him. “Very astute, oh wise one. Who ever would have thought?” Jaskier shoots back dryly. “Can’t you even take a compliment when a man offers you one?” he complains, tutting loudly. “Really, someone has got to teach you some manners, Geralt.”

“And I suppose that’ll be you?” Geralt shoots back dryly, grinning. He turns to take in the expression on Jaskier’s face, and huffs out a laugh at how incensed the bard looks.

His brow is furrowed, and his mouth is gaping open in offense. “You joke, Geralt, but I very well just might!”

“I’m sure,” Geralt snorts, amused, and turns back to his meal.

Jaskier “harrumphs!” loudly in response, but doesn’t otherwise say anything. He’s pouting, Geralt knows, but he’ll get over it in a minute or two. Geralt basks in the temporary silence, and chews quietly at his meal, half his mind turned back to the hunt already.

“You know, it really isn’t all that bad,” Jaskier says, breaking the silence and interrupting Geralt’s thoughts about which potions will be most effective against the monster.

“What isn’t?” Geralt mutters, shifting his attention back to Jaskier. He frowns, trying to work out what Jaskier is talking about.

“The fish,” Jaskier elaborates, humming. He sounds pleased and takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Of course, it would be far better if we had some spices or you’d cooked it into a stew,” he muses, considering. “Though I assume you work with what you’ve got— ”

“Get on with it, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts him, rolling his eyes at him.

“— but you’re actually a fairly good cook, when it comes right down to it,” he states, shrugging nonchalantly. Geralt narrows his eyes at him, not fooled by Jaskier’s casualness, and waits for Jaskeir to get to the point.

There’s a pause, wherein Jaskier chews slowly, and then, “Did you learn it on your own, or did someone teach you?” he inquires cooly, as if the answer doesn’t bother him at all.

The question is enough to cause Geralt to pause, and he rests his mostly finished meal on his lap as he processes it.

It’s not often that he talks about himself, or his upbringing — not with Jaskier, and not with anyone else — but Jaskier seems genuinely interested. The problem is, Geralt doesn’t know how to respond.

He’s let some things slip in the past. It’s hard not to, when he spends so much time with the bard. The finer details, though… he definitely hasn't gotten into, and this seems like the kind of mundane detail that no one else would care to ask, especially not from a witcher.

Geralt’s hesitation to answer seems to do nothing to ward off the bard’s questions. He takes another bite, chews it over thoughtfully, and glances up at Geralt.

“I can’t decide whether or not it’s the kind of thing that would have come up in your training,” Jaskier muses, humming softly. “It’s hard to imagine your teachers at Kaer Morhen interrupting monster lessons for a quick cooking lesson.”

Geralt lets out a surprised laugh. Jaskier tosses him a grin, clearly pleased with himself, and the tenseness he’d been holding in his shoulders — a tenseness that Geralt hadn’t immediately noticed — disappears.

“I mean, _someone_ had to cook for you all, didn’t they?” Jaskier pushes, slowly wheedling his way closer to an answer. “I don’t buy into all that nonsense about Witchers being savages,” he comments derisively with a little snort.

Now _that_ shocks Geralt, and he stops eating to stare incredulously at Jaskier, who’s too caught up in his own thought to notice the look.

“I mean look at you!” Jaskier continues, boldly, waving his hand at Geralt as if _something_ about Geralt’s appearance helps to justify his point. “You’re the least savage man I’ve ever met!”

Geralt immediately snorts at the frankly ridiculous statement, but can’t help being astonished at the same time. Jaskier’s entire demeanor is indignant on Geralt’s behalf, as if he truly believes what he’s saying — as if he truly believes that there’s nothing savage about witchers, nothing savage about _Geralt_.

Jaskier keeps talking, preventing Geralt from being able to react.

“Fine, fine,” Jaskier concedes, tossing his head. “Maybe a _little_ savage, but that’s hardly the point,” he says dryly with a snort of his own. “I’ve seen entire villages more savage than you,” he adds, and nods at Geralt with a look of shared understanding.

Geralt can only stare, because while he can definitely agree with Jaskier on that point, not a lot of people would.

They’ve known each other for years, and yet Geralt still finds himself startled every time Jaskier says something like this, as if he views Geralt as _human_ when the rest of the world very much doesn’t.

Geralt feels very warm all of a sudden.

“Anyway, back to my point,” Jaskier says, a little flustered. His cheeks are a little red. “You hardly ever talk about Kaer Morhen, but when you _do_ , oh ho ho, I dare say you sound rather _fond_ ,” Jaskier teases, waggling his eyebrows at Geralt.

“Bullshit,” Geralt responds abruptly, mainly because he isn’t sure what else to say. Witchers aren’t _fond_. They might not be as emotionless as the continent would like to believe, but they rarely form _bonds_ , and the bonds of brotherhood forged through the trials would hardly leave someone with memories to be _fond_ over. “No one is _fond_ of Kaer Morhen.”

And yet, as Geralt turns and watches Jaskier roll his eyes knowingly, affectionately, he can’t help wondering if the bard might be right after all.

The long days at Kaer Morhen hadn’t all been bad. He’d had Eskel and Lambert with him, and no one could accuse them of being anything less than the worst of troublemakers.

Geralt’s lips tremble for a moment, the edge of a smile there. He hasn’t seen his brothers in a long time.

“Aha! See! There! Don’t think you can hide _that_ from me, witcher!” Jaskier exclaims, laughing.

Geralt’s lips twitch harder, and Jaskier leans over to poke him in the side. “You know I’m right,” Jaskier sing-songs, grinning.

Geralt shakes his head, and finally laughs, because maybe Jaskier is right. Maybe Kaer Morhen wasn’t _all_ bad, even if it wasn’t _great_ , and there are still things to be fond over. Kaer Morhen gave him a family, after all.

For a moment, Jaskier just leaves the conversation there. He hums softly, pleased with himself, and finishes up his meal. Geralt follows suit, and before long, the two of them are tossing their cleaned bones into the fire.

Jaskier sighs, and leans back on the ground next to Geralt. Once he’s settled, he presses their thighs together companionably. “Come on, then Geralt,” he says softly, wheedling. “How’d you learn to cook, then?”

Geralt sighs heavily, but eventually murmurs, “Meriyan.” He doesn’t look at Jaskier, his mood sobering some, as he remembers home — falling from high places because he wasn’t yet used to his enhanced senses, the taste of forbidden fruit on his tongue… “When we’d get in trouble in the keep, they’d send us to her. Asked her to make use of us in the kitchens,” he explains.

Jaskier doesn’t interrupt him, instead listening intently. He doesn’t ask who “us” is, or what kind of trouble they’d get up to. He just listens.

“She taught us to cook,” Geralt repeats unnecessarily, swallowing roughly. It’s strange, thinking of Meriyan now, years later. “Useful skill, considering the job. They taught us to skin animals as part of our training, but…” Geralt trails off. He can’t find the words to say anything more, doesn’t feel there _is_ anything else to say, and goes silent.

Jaskier seems to realize that Geralt is done talking, because he waits for a moment, hums softly, and presses his thigh tighter to Geralt's briefly, as if to reassure the witcher that he’s still there.

Geralt grunts, and goes to stand up — he’s got to settle Roach down for the night.

He doesn’t get very far before Jaskier’s hand finds his shoulder, effectively paralzying Geralt where he is. He turns his head, shocked, and finds that Jaskier, somehow, has moved even closer to him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, voice soft in the sudden quiet of the night.

“What,” Geralt grumbles, and it's barely a question.

Something soft sneaks into Jaskier’s expression, and he smiles.

“Thanks for cooking tonight,” he whispers. Geralt blinks, and suddenly Jaskier’s there, leaning in slowly, and pressing their lips together again. Geralt makes a muffled little sound, surprised at the gesture, and finds himself surprisingly disappointed when it doesn’t last long.

Rather, it’s just a moment, hardly any longer than the first time he’d been kissed. Jaskier’s lips are warm, just the same as Geralt remembers, only this time the bard tastes like fish and smoke. This time, it’s just that little bit _more_ , enough so that Geralt can feel the exact way Jaskier’s lips move against his own — and then Jaskier is gone again, leaving nothing but his taste and the feeling of being understood behind.

The hand that had held Geralt so firmly in place only a moment ago lifts from his shoulder as Jaskier casually stands up and yawns loudly, as if the kiss hadn’t happened at all.

Geralt stares at the back of him, mouth tingling, but unable to respond.

“Well, good night, Geralt,” Jaskier hums, and moves to pull his bedroll from his bags, spreading it on the other side of the fire where he settles in for the night.

\--

It happens again in Oxenfurt.

They’ve parted ways a lot in the decade they’ve traveled together. Sometimes it’s Jaskier choosing to stay behind at the nearest town to chase the skirts of pretty women, or — more likely — to take a temporary post as entertainer. Sometimes it’s Geralt, who gets called away on a dangerous mission that he doesn’t want Jaskier tagging along for, or — more probably still — when Geralt’s had too much time to think and realizes once again that Jaskier deserves a better life than this one.

This time, their separation is a combination of the two. Geralt is accompanying Jaskier to Oxenfurt at his request, where the bard is set to stay a few weeks as a guest lecturer. They’ve barely been in the town for twenty minutes when someone stops Geralt with a missive from Triss requesting his assistance.

It’s with some regret that Geralt sighs, and readies himself to turn back around and be on his leave.

“There’s no way I could convince you to stay for even one drink, is there?” Jaskier asks, sounding far more disappointed than Geralt had been expecting.” His gaze is downcast, and Geralt can see Jaskier biting his lip before those bright eyes find him again. “I was so looking forward to showing you around.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, and turns back to Roach. “Maybe next time,” he acquiesces gruffly.

There’s a part of him that’s disappointed as well, though he can’t name why, and he shakes it away with a roll of his shoulders, uncomfortable with the feeling.

He has responsibilities, and Triss is asking for his help. He can visit Oxenfurt with Jaskier another time.

Behind him, Jaskier sighs as Geralt adjusts his bags on Roach’s saddle and moves to sit astride her. As he settles the reins in his hands, and moves to turn Roach around, Jaskier approaches him.

He’s frowning, and he’s left his bags behind, with his lute propped up beside them. They’re just at the outskirts of the Academy, and Jaskier, for the first time, actually looks like he _belongs_ somewhere. It’s a shock, therefore, that Jaskier looks so _sad_.

“Cheer up, bard,” Geralt grunts, eyes narrowing. “You have hot food and a bed to look forward to for the next few weeks,” he entices. “Much better than traveling with me,” he adds with a hint of a smile.

Geralt expects Jaskier to laugh at that, to joke back at him, but he doesn’t. He just continues to frown, and steps ever closer to Roach.

“I enjoy traveling with you,” Jaskier replies thickly, and his voice sounds different than it usually does, more serious, more… something. Geralt can’t quite put a name to the somber look Jaskier is giving him now, can’t figure out how to react to his words, isn’t sure what to make of them.

Whatever this is, it’s not the way Jaskier would usually respond.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, unsure what he’d even say to that. It doesn’t seem to matter. Jaskier doesn’t appear to be waiting for a response. Instead, he reaches up and cups his hand against Geralt’s cheek, pulling him down, down, down.

Suddenly, Geralt’s face is held close to Jaskier’s, close enough to be kissed.

Geralt isn’t sure what makes him allow it to happen, but in the next moment, Jaskier’s lips are pressed firmly to his, and he’s got Geralt’s bottom lip between his teeth, and he’s kissing Geralt, _really_ kissing him this time, lips a soft, fervent pressure. It’s not chaste in the least, and it goes on far longer than any of the rest, long enough that Geralt has pulled himself together enough to respond. He doesn’t get a chance to, because then Jaskier lets him go.

Geralt’s head is spinning. He can feel a low simmering heat burn in his body, and it’s confusing, so confusing that all he can do is _stare_. All he can ever do is stare, after Jaskier kisses him.

The bard smiles, as if he hasn’t just turned Geralt’s world upside down for the third time, and lifts his hand in a little wave.

“Safe travels, Geralt,” he says, his voice just this side of hoarse.

Geralt blinks at him, nods, and turns away, leading Roach back down through the city and away from Jaskier, despite the fact that Geralt suddenly really, really does not want to go.

\--

The next time it happens, they’ve barely been apart for a month.

They meet back up again in Dorian, where Geralt stops for the night after someone recognizes him as the “white wolf” the bard in town was singing about. It had been an assumption that the bard in question would be Jaskier, but Geralt knows he’s right as soon as he stables Roach at an inn nearby that smells like Jaskier.

Geralt can hear the bard’s voice before he enters, and despite himself, he smiles, the tiniest quirk of the lips. Jaskier is strumming his lute to a jaunty tune, dancing around the inn and making a right fool of himself. The patrons are enjoying it, if the clapping and singing along are anything to go by, and Geralt approaches the barman for a pint before finding a dark, back corner to sit in.

It takes a few songs for Jaskier to notice Geralt, but when he does, his entire being seems to brighten — even from across the room, Geralt can see the way Jaskier’s smile pulls a little wider, his eyes sparkle a little more. He finishes his tune with a lofty flourish, bows theatrically to his audience, and excuses himself for the night with a hefty weight of coin tucked into his pocket. He slides into a seat in front of Gerelt’s like he belongs there.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Jaskier says, grinning. The barmaid approaches with a pint for Jaskier, and Jaskier beams at her, thanking her profusely. Geralt inhales sharply, and realizes he can practically smell the alcohol in Jaskier’s sweat. It’s then that Geralt realizes Jaskier has clearly been abundantly plied with alcohol all night, and he seems to already be well on his way to drunk.

“How much have you had to drink, Jaskier?” Geralt asks, sighing exasperatedly. He doesn’t even bother to greet the bard, figuring it hardly matters.

Jaskier waggles his eyebrows at him. “Why, are you here to bespoil my honor?” he teases, his expression lewd as he takes a long drag from his pint. “Because if so, I’m definitely not too drunk to enjoy it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums dispassionately, studying the bard closely. He’s definitely loose limbed, his expression over the top, even for Jaskier. Geralt grinds his teeth a little and elects to ignore the bard's last comment, because he has no idea what to do with it. “You should take care of yourself,” he says, glancing away so that he doesn’t have to look at Jaskier.

Jaskier gasps, dramatic as ever. “Are you _worried_ about me, Geralt of Rivia?” he asks, far louder than necessary. “Perhaps that someone _else_ might despoil my honor?”

“It’s far too late for that,” Geralt grumbles, looking away, but he can feel his cheeks heating up nevertheless. Jaskier isn’t _wrong_ — Geralt was worried about someone taking advantage of the bard, but that has more to do with the fact that Jaskier would go to bed with just about anyone, and the last thing Geralt wants is for someone to do something the bard wouldn’t want.

Jaskier lets out a bark of a laugh in response. He’s grinning, cheeks flushed prettily. “Oh Geralt, you _do_ care,” he crows happily, and stands up, swaying a little. Geralt sees his eyes go a little cross eyed for a moment as he attempts to steady himself. His movements are still a little wobbly when he shifts around the table and abruptly sits in Geralt’s lap.

Geralt tenses immediately.

“Jaskier,” he says, reproachful, but Jaskier ignores him. He reaches up and wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, dragging the witcher closer to him. Their faces are inches apart, and Geralt can _definitely_ smell the alcohol wafting off his skin now. It’s almost repugnant, and Geralt furrows his nose.

“Jaskier,” he says again, but Jaskier cuts him off.

“Don’t worry, Geralt,” Jaskier teases in a sing song voice, “I’ve been waiting for you,” he croons.

Geralt doesn’t get the chance to question what the hell that means, because at that moment, Jaskier drags him in for a kiss, deeper by far than any of the rest.

Either the alcohol, or the excuse of alcohol, has loosened Jaskier’s tongue, and he bites past Geralt’s lips with very little resistance. His tongue is hot against Geralt’s own, and for the first time Geralt is getting first-hand experience of what Jaskier is really like when it comes to matters such as this.

He’s very good with his tongue, and he manages to drag a groan out of Geralt’s throat, as, unable to resist, Geralt kisses him back. He doesn’t have enough brain capacity left to question what the fuck is going on, because he’s too busy being shocked by the fact that he actually _wants_ this, that he’d been waiting for the next time Jaskier would kiss him, wondering if it would feel the same every time as it had the first time — if it would keep feeling like something hot has unfurled in Geralt’s chest.

He doesn’t get very much longer to ponder the realization that it _does_ , before Jaskier lets out a tiny sigh and pulls away.

Geralt blinks, brain a little fuzzy. He looks up to find that Jaskier is smiling at him.

“You look cute, like this,” Jaskier murmurs, and leans in for one last little peck to Geralt’s lips. He reaches up with calloused fingers to pat clumsily at Geralt’s cheek, the look on his face positively fond.

As abruptly as Jaskier had climbed into his lap, Jaskier climbs back off, and saunters back to the other side of the table where he plops down happily. His smile is loose and unconcerned as he grabs his pint for another long draw. It’s as if the kiss had never even happened, and Geralt has no idea what to do with that.

“Jaskier,” he says, desperate to just _understand_ already, but then Jaskier turns back to face him with glassy eyes and a slightly-delayed hum of question, and Geralt realizes that now is really not the time.

Geralt doesn’t end up drinking very much, and after he’s had a hot meal, he carries a drunk Jaskier up to bed, and stays with him this time because Jaskier won’t let him go.

\--

It starts happening more often after that —

There’s a kiss on the cheek the next time Geralt offers Jaskier a bowl of soup. A kiss on the hand as Jaskier gets up to perform for a tavern full of jovial townsfolk, eyes dark as he stares up at Geralt from under even darker eyelashes. A kiss on the top of the head, as Jaskier washes Geralt’s hair for the thousandth time. A kiss on the forehead, as Jaskier wipes blood away from his hairline with a tiny frown on his face. And once, a kiss on the nose in the middle of the afternoon, because Geralt had been staring off into space, and Jaskier, it seemed, had felt like it.

Geralt is baffled by the whole situation. He’s never been touched this affectionately in his life, and with every new kiss, Geralt realizes that he really, really does not want it to stop — only he can’t figure out how to make sure that it doesn’t.

He’s not even sure what started it.

Geralt knows that Jaskier is free with his affections. He’s a romantic, and he falls in love with everyone he meets, but it never lasts long, and he _definitely_ isn’t shy about saying the words, so…

It shouldn’t be weird, only Jaskier has never been like this _with him_ , so Geralt doesn’t understand what the fuck is going on.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to want anything more from Geralt, if recent events are anything to go by. He hasn’t made one single attempt to ask for _more_ , and that alone is unusual for Jaskier, who’d fucked his way around the continent — only…

Wait a moment. He hasn’t done that recently.

Geralt’s brow furrows as he realizes this. He hasn’t seen Jaskier take someone to bed since before the banquet, all those months ago. He’d just assumed, at the time, that Jaskier had been trying to avoid stepping on any new toes, considering his growing reputation as a cad.

But then why had he kissed Geralt that night in Sodden? Why hadn’t he lept at the chance to have a dalliance or two with the girls of Oxenfurt, rather than bemoaning the fact that Geralt couldn’t stay? Why had he gone to bed with Geralt that night when he was drunk, even though there had been plenty of willing women sitting in that tavern plying him with alcohol all night?

And why, above all else, had Jaskier started _kissing_ him in the first place, if it was clear he didn’t want anything more?

“And what, my dear witcher, has put _that_ look on your face,” Jaskier asks, pulling Geralt out of his thoughts as he plops down on the bed next to him. The moment his body hits the bed, Jaskier falls backwards, and sighs blissfully into the cool sheets.

Geralt turns a little to stare down at him, watching the way Jaskier’s eyes flutter contentedly.

“Nothing,” Geralt grunts, and returns to unlacing his boots. Jaskier hums disbelievingly, but when Geralt glances at him again, his eyes are closed, and he looks to be satisfied with that answer.

They sit together companionably, Geralt lost in his thoughts once again, as he listens to Jaskier breathe quietly beside him. It’s a comforting sound, where it once might not have been. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat as well, a steady, reassuring thump, and he sighs softly.

Yeah, he definitely doesn’t want to lose this — whatever it is. Asking Jaskier what hell is going on though? Just doesn’t seem worth it, right now.

\--

It all comes to a head one night in Ellander.

Geralt returns from a hunt with the head of a Golem, covered in rock and dust, but otherwise unscathed. He drops the trophy off with the Alderman, and with a purse full of coin, returns to the inn where he’d left Jaskier.

Jaskier is waiting for him at a table in the back. Geralt expects to see him composing his next ballad, perhaps with a bowl of hot stew waiting for Geralt, but instead he finds the bard chatting with an old friend of Geralt’s. Or at least, she’s chatting with Jaskier.

“Triss?” Geratl calls, surprised.

The curly haired sorceress turns a sunny smile onto him at the sound of her name, and stands to greet him.

“Geralt,” she replies, voice honeytoned. She moves to embrace him, but changes her mind at the last minute, noting that Geralt is covered in dirt. “Ever the mess, I see,” she teases with a small laugh. “Come, sit with us!” she says, beckoning him to the table where a bowl of stew does, in fact, wait for him.

Geralt follows her, but his gaze immediately finds Jaskier’s. Jaskier’s expression is unreadable, something Geralt is entirely unused to, and he doesn’t appear to have been much engaged in his conversation with Triss.

Geralt can’t think of anything they have in common, but Jaskier is good at charming people — good at conversation in general — so Geralt can’t imagine any reason the bard would be so subdued. He hasn’t even greeted Geralt, or demanded details of his hunt the way he usually would.

Geralt furrows his brow as he sits down, and eyes Jaskier questioningly. Jaskier doesn’t respond. His expression doesn’t so much as shift, and that, above all else, worries Geralt. What could Triss have possibly said to render Jaskier mute and emotionless like this?

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks bluntly, turning his attention back to Triss. “Has something happened?” he asks shrewdly, narrowing his eyes at her.

Triss laughs. “What, I can’t just be here to visit an old friend?” she inquires, expression lighthearted.

Geralt glares at her. “You just saw me,” he states in a no nonsense tone.

“But that was under different circumstances,” Triss argues playfully, tossing her hair over her shoulder, Geralt’s glare not affecting her. “Come, Geralt, surely you’re pleased to see me,” she teases, flashing him a sunny smile.

And it’s not that Geralt _isn’t_ pleased to see her, it's more that no one ever really seeks him out unless they need something from him. The only exception is Jaskier, and even then he claims to be along for the adventure. Jaskier is probably one of the only people who can tolerate spending an extended period of time with Geralt, and Geralt doesn’t even know how he manages that much.

For Triss to be here… is just _odd_. But for Jaskier to appear _displeased_ about it… that’s even odder.

“Hmm,” Geralt replies tonelessly, instead of answering. It doesn't appear he’s going to get a straight answer out of her, so he turns to his stew and begins to eat.

“I see you’re as talkative as ever,” Triss comments wryly, and goes to exchange a knowing grin with Jaskier. Jaskier isn’t smiling, though. Instead, when Geralt turns to look at him, he finds Jaskier practically _glaring_ at the sorceress, and he’s not even trying to hide it.

Geralt’s brow furrows again as he stares at Jaskier.

What the _fuck_ did he miss?

“Well,” Triss says, clearing her throat and looking away. She attempts to share a look of utter bewilderment with Geralt, which Geralt does not reciprocate, and continues on. “Anyway, Geralt. I was just speaking with your bard here,” she explains, nodding her head at Jaskier, but avoiding looking his way again. “And he said you might not be back for _hours_. What was it you were hunting?” she asks, and she leans in close, attentive, and just _waits_.

Haltingly, Geralt tells her about the Golem. He can’t help the suspicion he feels, especially considering the lack of commentary coming from Jaskier, but he answers Triss nonetheless. She _is_ one of his oldest friends, and while he might not fully trust her, he can assume her intentions are good.

As Geralt talks, Triss stares at him, her smile coquettish. Geralt, for his part, keeps glancing at Jaskier, who he knows would normally be jotting down every last detail he can wring from Geralt for a song, only this time, he isn’t writing anything.

In fact, he spends the entire night glaring at Triss, hardly saying a word other than a huff or a mirthless laugh, even as their conversation turns far away from the Golem and into gossip, which Jaskier usually loves to partake in. Triss has news of the courts, which Geralt could give less of a shit about, but which Jaskier usually laps up.

Geralt stares suspiciously at Jaskier the majority of the time, grunting in acknowledgement to Triss’ words, and otherwise finishing his stew and turning to his ale. Eventually, Triss moves on to tales of uprisings in the north, which is only marginally more interesting to Geralt.

Triss doesn’t seem to take it very seriously herself, and she teases Geralt about how they’ve both been alive long enough to see kings rise and fall too many times to be much surprised — or worried — about anything.

This comment, however, seems to grab Jaskier’s attention, because for the first time all night he snorts derisively, and tosses his head in outright annoyance.

Geralt stares at him, perturbed. He’s never seen Jaskier be quite so rude to a lady, nor has he ever known Jaskier to be so quiet in all the time he’s known him. Triss chooses to ignore the reaction completely, as if Jaskier wasn’t even there, and continues on.

“Ah, well,” Triss says, yawning quietly after a few hours of talking. “I best be off to bed,” she adds, standing, never once having given away what she could possibly have said to bother Jaskier so much. “I’ve got a long journey in the morning, but thanks ever so much for your company tonight, Geralt.” She smiles sweetly. “Jaskier,” she adds after a beat, seemingly reluctant to include it at all, and offers the bard a bland smile that he does not reciprocate.

Geralt nods in response, a part of him relieved to have this night over with, and stands automatically to bid Triss farewell. He immediately regrets it. He doesn’t actually know what he’d been planning to do, and now Triss is staring at him… well, expectantly. Geralt is surprised to see a soft flush fill her cheeks.

“Unless,” Triss says quietly, stepping in close to Geralt, “You’d care to join me?” she whispers, and runs a soft palm down Geralt’s dust covered arm.

That seems to be the last straw for Jaskier. With a loud scraping of his stool against the ground, Jaskier stands and grabs Geralt’s bicep with tight fingers, tearing him away from Triss.

Triss blinks in shock, and Geralt turns a baffled expression onto Jaskier that Jaskier ignores.

“I’m afraid not tonight, my lady,” Jaskier answers for Geralt, grinning a sharp smile. “We also have a long journey ahead of us in the morning, and Geralt still hasn’t had his bath. Perhaps next time,” he adds derisively, as if he doesn’t mean it — as if he doesn’t plan to let Geralt anywhere _near_ Triss again.

Geralt’s heart clenches tight, and he turns a shocked look onto Jaskier, opening his mouth in preparation to say _something_ — only Geralt can’t find any words.

Jaskier takes advantage of Geralt’s silence to clutch even harder at his bicep and _pull_ , yanking him away from the situation and from Triss. He tosses a few coin onto the table as they go, and despite the fact Geralt is stronger than Jaskier, despite the fact he could throw Jaskier around like a rag doll, Geralt allows it to happen, because it’s _Jaskier_.

Jaskier had already gotten them a room earlier that day, and he heads up the stairs and straight into it without pause. Geralt catches sight of a bath gone long cold, but he dismisses it quickly, turning his attention onto Jaskier.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, once Jaskier has slammed the door closed behind them and Geralt has gotten over his shock. “What the hell—” Geralt starts, but Jaskier cuts him off, not even allowing him to finish his question.

With all of his strength, Jaskier presses his hands into Geralt’s hips, and shoves him up against the door, holding him there with the press of his own body flush against Geralt’s.

Geralt inhales sharply, and frowns at Jaskier, whose face is far closer to Geralt’s than he’d anticipated. He forgets, sometimes, how close in height they are. Before Geralt can even begin to make sense of his confusion, Jaskier leans the rest of the way in, and kisses him.

This time… this time is different. They haven’t properly kissed since that night in the bar when Jaskier had been drunk. There have been kisses in between, sure, but those had been more born from affection than desire. This kiss, though. This kiss is nothing _but_ desire, and it shakes Geralt to his core.

He feels himself light up and groans at Jaskier’s touch, at the way the bard licks into his mouth and twines their tongues together. His hands are hot against Geralt’s hips, a brand as he pushes against him, pinning him in place.

Geralt reaches up and cups the back of Jaskier’s neck, drawing him in closer. He lets Jaskier bite at his lips, lets him flick their tongues together, lets him take _everything_ Geralt has to offer, and just breathes it in. His fingers thread through Jaskier’s hair and he pulls a little, listens to the little mewl Jaskier lets out, and finds himself desperate for more.

Geralt wants to keep kissing Jaskier, he _does_ , but he wants to know what the _hell_ is going on even more, so before he can completely lose himself in the feeling of Jaskier’s lips against his, Geralt releases Jaskier’s hair, and shoves him away.

Jaskier stumbles, and when Geralt looks up, he finds that Jaskier is staring at him in bewilderment, mouth kiss-bruised and breath heavy.

“Geralt, what?” Jaskier asks, clearly lost.

Geralt’s hands twist into fists at his sides, because what the hell does Jaskier have to be confused about? He’s the one who's been kissing Geralt without explanation, the one who's been driving Geralt crazy with every kiss, every _touch_ , and he just can’t take it anymore. He needs to know _why_. Geralt grinds his teeth together loudly.

“What the _fuck_ , Jaskier?” he growls, allowing all the frustration from the last few months to pour into his voice. He’s sick of not knowing, sick of Jaskier teasing him like this, sick of Jaskier kissing him when Geralt can’t be sure of what his intentions are.

Geralt can feel himself thrumming with energy, and he wants nothing more than to have Jaskier pressed back up against him, kissing him, _touching_ him, but he can’t. He can’t fucking stand it anymore. Not without knowing.

“What?” Jaskier asks again, brow furrowed. “What’s going on, Geralt, why—” he tries, but Geralt doesn’t care if Jaskier has questions, because Geralt has a _thousand_ more, and he’s damn well been waiting longer than Jaskier has been.

“Why do you keep _kissing_ me!?” Geralt demands, squeezing his fingers tighter against his skin, and watches as Jaskier stares at him in confusion, clearly uncomprehending of what Geralt is asking.

It takes another moment of Geralt breathing heavily, hands clenched into fists at his sides, before Jaskier appears to freeze, gawking at Geralt in shock.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, astonished, and takes a short step back. “Oh wow,” he says, laughing breathlessly as he shakes his head. “Wow, Geralt, I thought…”

But whatever he’d thought, he doesn’t say. Instead, he just stares up with dancing eyes, that same knowing look on his face from _months_ ago.

Geralt grits his teeth.

“What the fuck are you smiling about?” Geralt barks, glaring sharply at Jaskier, whose lips are turned up in a grin. “And what the fuck was that back there, with Triss?” he adds, because he doesn’t understand _that_ either. “I don’t understand what’s going on with you, Jaskier. You’ve been a right prick for the last few months.”

Jaskier laughs, the sound warm, despite the tenseness in the room. The intensity that had seemed to be simmering in Jaskier earlier is suddenly gone, the passion from the kiss moments ago replaced now with something softer, something...sweet? Jaskier is staring at Geralt with something close to adoration, and Jaskier steps closer to him again.

Geralt doesn’t fight it when Jaskier reaches up and cups his cheek, patting it softly.

“You’re an idiot, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier whispers.

Geralt inhales sharply, stung, and goes to pull away, but Jaskier just holds him tighter and pulls Geralt in to press a kiss against his ear. His hot breath against Geralt’s skin makes him shudder, and his eyes close involuntarily.

“Jaskier,” he hisses, trying so hard to hold onto that feeling of irritation, of _unknowing,_ that’s been plaguing him for months.

“Sh,” Jaskier hums, encouraging. There’s something light in his voice, as if he’s smiling, but Geralt can’t move to see it. He’s frozen, hushed, as if Jaskeir has cast a spell on him. “You want to know why I keep kissing you?” he whispers, the sound of his words vibrating through Geralt, right down to his core.

Geralt nods, mute.

He feels more than hears Jaskier chuckle, a rush of _something_ going up his spine. “Let me know when you figure it out,” Jaskier breathes against the shell of his ear, his lips a whisper against skin.

The look on Jaskier’s face when he pulls away is patient, but full of hunger, his eyes dark with want. It’s an expression Geralt can’t seem to parse. He finds that he’s frozen, as Jaskier lets his arms drop from where he’d had them pressed against the small of Geralt’s back, and he steps away, steps around Geralt, and walks out of the room, leaving Geralt wanting, confused, and alone.

\--

Jaskier doesn’t come back that night.

Geralt reheats the bath water with a quick Igni after Jaskier leaves, and washes himself mechanically, his mind focused on Jaskier’s words. He can still feel Jaskier’s breath against his ear, still feel the warmth of Jaskier’s body, and the press of Jaskier’s lips against his. It muddles his mind, makes it difficult to think, and it pisses him off to no end.

He’d just wanted answers. Tonight had been the last straw, with the way Jaskier had been acting with Triss, the way he’d dragged Geralt away from her as if he had any say in who Geralt spent the night with, the way he’d kissed Geralt, _again_ , and had the gall, afterward, to look at Geralt as if he should already _know_ why he’d done it — _had_ been doing it for months.

He doesn’t _fucking_ know, and he’s sick of it. He’s sick of the knowing looks, the tenderness with which Jaskier has started to touch him, the desperate _longing_ Geralt feels to have Jaskier touch him again. He’s sick of not knowing where he stands, or what’s going on, or the fact that he can’t, has never been able to, get a grasp on who Jaskier is to him.

He hadn’t wanted tonight’s kiss to end. He hadn’t wanted _any_ of the kisses to end, and it feels like such a tease that Jaskier keeps _doing_ it, as if he doesn’t understand the way he’s making Geralt feel.

Geralt smacks his fists against the water, and climbs out of the bath.

\--

The next morning, Geralt makes his way into the tavern alone. He settles down for a quick breakfast, expecting Jaskier to join him soon. They don’t have an early morning as Jaskier had suggested last night, but they should get a move on if they want to make any progress before dark, and Geralt is confident Jaskier knows this.

He doesn’t for one second entertain the idea that Jaskier would have moved on without him. He isn’t sure he could handle that thought right now.

It isn’t Jaskier who joins him that morning, though. It’s Triss.

“Geralt,” Triss greets as she settles down at the table with him, her bag at her side. “Fancy meeting you here,” she says, grinning. She’s got an apple in her hands, and she’s wearing her traveling cloak already. It’s clear she’s on her way out.

Geralt grunts in response, and turns back to his own breakfast: a roll of bread and some sweet meats. He’s picking at it mostly. If the bard were here, Geralt knows it would be almost gone by now, Jaskier snagging bits and pieces here and there while Geralt is distracted.

He’d never admit to the bard that he _lets_ him pick off his plate.

Triss bites into her apple with a small hum, and when Geralt glances back at her, he can see her smirking.

“What’s bothering you this morning, dear friend?” she asks, amused. “Surely you had a good night with your bard.”

Geralt huffs in annoyance. “He’s not my bard,” he snaps immediately.

“Could have fooled me,” Triss replies, rolling her eyes. “The way he whisked you away last night…” She pauses and shakes her head, laughing. “I finally understood why he kept _glaring_ at me, at least,” she muses happily. “Ah well, he beat me to it,” she says, sighing regretfully.

Geralt’s eyes snap to hers immediately, and he forgets all about his meal. He has no idea what Triss could possibly mean, but she seems to think she understands something about what’s going on with Jaskier — at least more so than Geralt. Maybe she can give Geralt some sort of insight into what she’d done last night to rile Jaskier up in the first place. “What are you talking about?” he demands.

Triss gives him a funny look, apparently caught off guard by Geralt’s hostile reaction.

“Geralt, I’m not _stupid_ ,” she insists, insulted. “I came here last night for a quick tryst. You might be too dense to notice when a woman is flirting with you, but your bard is not,” she scoffs, and flicks her hand dismissively.

Geralt bares his teeth, frustrated. What the fuck does that even mean? “I said he’s not _my_ bard,” he growls impatiently, waving the very notion away. “And if all you're going to do is speak in riddles, I’d rather you be on your way,” he adds curtly, and glares at her, arms crossed over his chest.

Triss glares back, clearly affronted. “There’s no reason to be like that, Geralt,” she states calmly, and draws her shawl around herself primly. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. It’s clear to anyone who bothers to look that your bard is deeply enamoured with you.” She huffs indignantly, and moves to slip her coin purse away. “And you with him,” she adds decisively.

 _That_ shocks him, so deeply that all Geralt can do is gawk at her, astonished. His witcher slow heart rate picks up.

“What,” he asks quietly, “the fuck are you talking about.” He stares, eyes boring into Triss’. He can’t even begin to fathom why Triss would say such a thing. That… can’t be right. “What exactly do you think is going on here, Triss?” he demands after a minute.

Triss blinks back at him for a moment, bewildered, and then her expression seems to clear. Her eyes widen, and she smiles, reaching up to cover a laugh. Geralt grinds his teeth at her, offended.

“Triss!” he growls.

“Oh my gods, Geralt, how do you not know?” she asks, laughing out right now. ”You daft bastard,” she adds, near hysterical. “I wish I could say I can’t believe you, but I suppose I shouldn’t even be surprised. You’ve always been blind when it comes to matters such as this.”

“Damnit, Triss,” Geralt curses, “Just tell me what’s going on!” he half shouts, breathing a little heavy. He can feel something burning at the back of his mind, taste the knowledge he’s asking for on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t _reach_ it. It’s there, and for the first time he realizes he _know_ s, he’s always known, but he just can’t — he just can’t grasp hold of it.

“Please,” he begs Triss, eyes wild with it.

Triss stops laughing to stare at him tenderly, and cocks her head. “You’re in love with him, Geralt,” Triss explains simply, “and he with you.”

The world grinds to a halt as the knowledge slams into him.

He’s known. He’s always known. The bitter taste on his tongue when Jaskier runs off with a lover suddenly makes sense for what it is — jealousy. The warmth blooming inside him with each new kiss is _happiness_. The anger that has been simmering just under the surface for so long is actually a broken sort of hope that Geralt hasn’t been able to allow himself to feel.

The strange burning feeling in the pit of his stomach when he looks at Jaskier has always been _love_... Geralt just hasn’t wanted to admit it.

Geralt lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.

Suddenly, it all makes sense — the kisses, the _affection_. It’s all just Jaskier’s way of saying yes to the question Geralt hadn’t known he’d been asking. Geralt had always made fun of Jaskier for wearing his heart on his sleeve, but Jaskier has known Geralt’s heart for far longer than Geralt has known his own.

And now he’s just waiting for Geralt to catch up.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters.

“Geralt,” Triss murmurs, grabbing hold of his attention with a soft look of exasperation on her face. She reaches out to take one of his hands, and holds on tight. “You are worthy of love, you know,” she says simply, like she believes it… like it’s true.

\--

For a while, the shocking revelation makes it difficult to think. Geralt leaves Triss in the tavern to head back up to his room and pack his things. He pulls on his armor numbly, stares at Jaskier’s rucksack where he’d left it behind last night, and heads down to the stables.

He doesn’t know where Jaskier is, but it’s fine. Geralt needs a moment alone anyway, some time to process the fact that he’d spent the last decade hiding from his own feelings.

Geralt wonders how long Jaskier has known.

Roach is a comforting presence when Geralt enters her stall, bumping her head into his chest companionably. He pats at her neck in greeting. “Hello, Roach,” he murmurs, and drops his bags in the corner.

He brushes her down to prepare her for the day’s ride, and it helps to relax him, to calm his thoughts, until all he’s left with is a slow rolling happiness that burns deep in his gut. He finds that he’s anxious to see Jaskier again, that he actually _wants_ what the bard is offering — that he’s tired of pretending the desire doesn’t exist.

He’s feeding Roach oats by the time Jaskier finds him, and at the sound of his voice, Geralt turns slowly.

“Morning, Geralt,” Jaskier greets him brightly, eyes twinkling. It takes a moment for Geralt to place the look, but when he does he realizes that it’s the same look Jaskier always gives him, only now Geralt can recognize it for what it is — love.

Geralt’s lips quirk slightly, and Jaskier mirrors this, though he looks a little confused.

“You alright?” he asks, taking a cautious step forward. “You look a little…” Jaskier doesn’t finish the sentence, instead waving at Geralt nonsensically.

He’s got his rucksack slung over one shoulder, and his lute case hung over the other. He’s dressed in finery, the same he always is, but his boots are the ones Geralt picked out for him years ago, suitable for traveling. His doublet, at the very least, looks warmer than usual, perfect for the chill that has started to pierce the air.

It occurs to Geralt then that he has spent a lot of time leaving Jaskier behind in some misguided assumption that Jaskier deserves a better life than the one Geralt leads, but as he looks at Jaskier now, and realizes that Jasker has spent the last decade following him willingly, always ready in the morning to be on the road, he decides that maybe Jaskier doesn’t _deserve_ better, because this is what Jaskier _chose_.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, ignoring the bard’s unfinished question.

Jaskier tilts his head at him. “Yes, Geralt?” he asks, clearly confused.

“Come here,” Geralt urges, and doesn’t wait for Jaskier to move towards him. This time, Geralt moves towards Jaskier, and he cups Jaskier’s cheeks in his hands, and he kisses him. Their noses brush softly as Geralt urges Jaskier’s mouth open, slow and sweet like liquid heat. Jaskier makes a soft noise into Geralt’s mouth, and reaches out to grab hold of Geralt’s tunic, anchoring himself in place.

Geralt’s hand shifts to press against the back of Jaskier’s skull, and he holds on tight. The warm feeling in his chest is growing outward, consuming him in a way Geralt hadn’t let it do before. Triss was right, Jaskier was right… Geralt had loved him for a long time.

He sighs when he eventually pulls back, pressing his forehead lightly to Jaskier’s. His eyes are still closed when Jaskier reaches up to run gentle fingers softly through his hair.

“Figured it out at last, did you?” he teases tenderly. Geralt huffs a quiet laugh, and pulls back from Jaskier just far enough to stare into his eyes.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and kisses Jaskier again. “I figured it out.”

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out on [ tumblr!](https://julekdreams.tumblr.com)  
>   
> Reblog [ here](https://julekdreams.tumblr.com/post/615585571831709696/kiss-me-like-you-want-to-be-loved)


End file.
